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first place. Briefly, out of disgust with the terror-stricken reticence of Abdul and his staff, he had felt like dropping the whole tentative project and leaving them to sweat out their own problems; but on reflection the silence of the Pakistanis seemed more a challenge than their co-operation would have been. And then there was that muttonchop-whiskered Goliath and his pipsqueak partner … and that daring reporter, Mr. Tam Rowan … all in all, ingredients which properly blended might provide as much excitement as the Saint had enjoyed in a long long while.
    By the time he had finished his dinner Simon had no more thoughts of quitting left in his head. His mind was simmering with plans and possibilities, and he was as eager as a hound for the chase.
    As if in reward for his determination, there was a little surprise waiting for him when he opened the folded bill which Abdul himself left on his table. A hasty hand had pencilled five words in the margin which had nothing to do with the menu.
    “Don’t! They would kill anybody,”
    2
HOW THE SAINT MET TAM
ROWAN, AND THEY HEARD
OF A RENDEZVOUS
    The Saint placed a five-pound note-one pound for each word of the pencil-scribbled warning-on the small tray with his dinner bill, and Abdul Haroon immediately scooted over from the centre of the room and confiscated it.
    “Thank you, sir! Thank you very much! One moment for the change …”
    “Give it to Mahmud,” Simon said, getting to his feet. “He won’t be picking up many tips for a few weeks.”
    He searched the restaurant-owner’s round perspiring face for some trace of admission that it was Abdul himself who had written the note, but he met only an impenetrable determinedly smiling mask.
    “You are most kind,” Abdul said.
    He was bowing the Saint to the door. The bill and the five-pound note had already disappeared into his pocket.
    “And you are very good about looking after your customers,” Simon rejoined.
    “I must try to look after them well,” Abdul said gloomily. “They are few enough!”
    Even as the Saint nodded goodnight just before stepping into the street Abdul’s expression betrayed nothing. He bowed again with elaborate politeness and held the door open. Simon left without another word, deciding to accept the remembered message for what it was worth and not press matters any further at the Golden Crescent.
    But just what was the warning worth? When he was alone on the sidewalk outside the restaurant he thought it over briefly. There had been no information in it, nothing he could draw any help from. He was still just where he had been after Mahmud’s implausible accident. He had a newspaper story bylined by a man who claimed to know more about the illegal immigration racket than he apparently dared to reveal, and he had in his head the name of a wholesale food-distribution company whose employees had shown conspicuous alacrity in getting on to their next job after doing whatever they had done at the Golden Crescent that evening.
    Simon stood on the street corner and watched the cars and taxis and evening crowds hurrying by, regretting that he had not memorized the delivery van’s licence. But at the time he had noticed the truck there had been no reason to believe he would ever need to know its number.
    There was a telephone outside a pub not far down the street. The Saint walked down to it, stepped into the tobacco-acrid atmosphere of the red kiosk, and swivelled the “S” volume of the directory up so he could have a look at it. He soon satisfied himself, without any great astonishment, that there was no Supreme Imports Ltd. in the London area-or at least that Supreme Imports (whatever it might be they imported) did not feel the need of a listed telephone in the transaction of their business. To make sure, he dialled directory inquiries, asked if Supreme Imports had a number, and received the expected negative answer.
    Without leaving the telephone booth the Saint glanced at his wristwatch.